


Hunter's Heart

by linda92595



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linda92595/pseuds/linda92595
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violence, blood/gore, one-sided incest, Takes place just before the series starts. Sam is still at Stanford. Dean wants more than a father/son relationship with John, and uses circumstances to get it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunter's Heart

John stared at the driver’s license in his hand. He frowned and shot Dean a look. His son was still snickering behind his hand. “I swear to god, Dean I am never letting you do the ids again. Just dropping Winchester off our names, how lazy can you get, and we don’t even have the same last name now. Dean Elliot and John Francis—what are you laughing at?”

 

“I didn’t know your middle name was Francis.”

 

 “Grow up; I thought you were supposed to be twenty-six not ten. What’s wrong with Francis? I happened to be named after my Uncle Frank. You should be thanking me for Uncle El, too. You could be Dean Hubert Winchester, you know. I saved you from that one when your mom wanted to name you after Grandpa Bert.” John said smugly watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean shuddered. 

 

Satisfied John added, "Yeah and Sammy was Eleanor Claire when we thought he was going to be a girl, so I guess he really dodged a bullet there."

 

“Look, so what if the names don’t match - nothing says we have to be father and son. A lot of people travel together; we can work together or something, a business trip,” Dean said.

 

“Yeah, but we’ve only got the one hotel room. Do business people stay in the same room?” John asked pulling a slip of paper out of his pocket. “And how do you explain the Impala?  Business people drive sedans not muscle cars.”

 

With a shrug Dean made a turn off the main road and into the hotel parking lot. He smiled; the place was a lot more impressive than the last dump they’d stayed in. The building was a nice two story structure with gables and green storm shutters. The white washed walls were clean and freshly painted, a large main door was golden hued oak surrounded on both sides by frosted bottle-glass windows. Three steps led to a covered porch with a wooden swing, and several pieces of sturdy white rattan furniture.

 

A pool was enclosed in a wooden fence across the lawn from the house, and Dean could see a number of tables covered by large green umbrellas and lounge chairs scattered around the crystal clear water.

 

They had been asked to come to the hotel by the owner.  In fact the woman was almost hysterical when she left a message on Jim Murphy's phone saying that she had been given his name by another hunter John vaguely remembered from the Roadhouse. Jim had passed the message onto John since he and Dean were already in upstate New York looking for an ancient book of arcane lore.  As was customary Jim had told the woman to expect two hunters, no names were ever mentioned. So John tucked the driver's license into his wallet and settled into the seat looking out the window.

 

The Inn was a bed and breakfast on the outskirts of a small town name Bradbury, a little south of the Hamptons. The trees were just beginning to turn, red and yellow foliage brilliant in the late afternoon sunlight. The air was cool; a hint of winter settling in. Dean took a deep breath. He had always loved fall weather, loved the crisp feel of the air and the cold bright blue sky.

 

“Hey, this is a really nice place isn't it, Johnny?" Dean said.

 

His father's dark expression sat off another round of snickering. With a sigh John opened the door, dragging his duffle bag out of the rear seat. He chose to ignore his son’s question.

 

“Oh come on…don’t be like that.” 

 

Dean grabbed his own bag, and followed his father’s retreating form across the parking lot and into the main building. Dean hustled after the broad back of his father, catching the door that John swung back, none too gently and dodging around a luggage cart by the entryway.

 

"Oh come on...I'm sorry, John!" he repeated.

 

An elderly couple was sitting on a sofa in front of the already roaring fireplace, twin cups of steaming tea held in their hands. The lady looked up blinking at Dean. She followed his gaze to the retreating figure of his father and smiled. John was standing beside the desk while a younger woman shuffled through the register and found the room number assigned to them. She handed him two keys; John pocketed one and held the second out to Dean. He grabbed it following the girl to the elevator.

 

The room she led them too was large and airy with a bay window, a small sofa and chairs arranged tastefully around a table across from a television against the wall. One door opened into a closet whilst a second door revealed the bathroom, sparkling white old fashioned claw-footed tub with a separate stall for the shower divided from the toilet with a double vanity and large framed mirror.

 

 "Hey," Dean said "This place is real swanky."

 

He dropped his bag beside the bathroom door and turned as John uttered a curse. His father was standing in front of the bed, a large king-sized bed on the north wall, covered in a thick goose down comforter and a multitude of pillows.

 

"Shit, I told her we needed two beds."

 

Dean grunted.

 

 "Oh, come on Dad, we've shared a bed before, and not even so nice a one. It won't kill us."

 

"You hog the blankets," John snapped. "And keep calling me John. You're going to have to do it in public all the time and we can’t afford for you to slip."

 

"Well, you snore - Johnny." Dean said grinning.

 

 John growled and if looks could maim Dean would have been a cripple. 

 

"We might as well stake out the place, check out the other guests before we meet with Judy Miller."

 

John nodded. He went into the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the window. In a few minutes he reemerged face scrubbed and beard trimmed down to just stubble. He had also combed his too long hair loosely, letting it fall over his forehead. Dean nodded in approval. With his beard trimmed and no gray showing John looked at least ten years younger.

 

"I figured that if we are supposed to be co-workers we should at least look closer in age." He offered by way of explanation. Dean couldn't argue.

 

The desk clerk met them at the elevator door. Dean noticed her slightly harried expression as she caught Dean's attention with a brief gesture.

 

 "Mr. Elliot, Mr. Francis Judy asked me to tell you she can't meet with you tonight, but that she will see you first thing in the morning, she's at the hospital—her daughter went into labor. I'm supposed to get you dinner so if you'll just follow me to the dining room."

 

She paused hopefully, but her expression fell slightly when she noticed John's annoyed look. Dean glanced at his father, and then started to follow the girl toward the dining room. John looked caught between tagging along and getting something to eat, or making a break for the front door to do some recon.

 

Dean looked at his father then sighed and came back sliding his hand into the small of John's back and propelling him toward the dining room. John surrendered with a frown, but Dean kept his hand on John's waist the entire time they walked across the lobby and all the way to the table. He winced when he noticed that most of the other guests were gazing at them with open curiosity, but shrugged it off. John, for once, seemed oblivious to the stares of the other people in the room.

 

When they got to the table Dean gallantly slid John's chair out, and waited until he took a seat before moving around to the opposite side of the table. Picking up a menu he glanced at the other tables. The scent of pot roast wafted by from a waiter's tray and his stomach rumbled. 

 

John smiled.

 

"I guess we can take a break tonight, and hit it tomorrow. I'm starving."

 

After dinner the receptionist came to the table again. She smiled at Dean and said, "Judy told me to run a tab for you, against your bill, so if you want to get a drink in the bar I've already told the bartender to put it on the tab. Bradbury isn't known for its nightlife, we're pretty much all there is to do in town after dark."

 

John shrugged and he and Dean followed her to the bar. The bar was large with a parquet dance floor and a live band on a raised platform at one end of the room. A marble-topped bar ran the length of the room with tall chrome stools lining it. Dean motioned his father to the bar, ducking into the side hall leading to the restrooms. John settled on one of the stools ordering a Jack and coke. He sipped at the drink, wincing a little as the whiskey bit at the back of his throat. He felt a hand fall on his shoulder and he turned expecting to see Dean standing behind him. Instead he saw a tall, lanky man in his mid-thirties with a neatly trimmed beard and steel blue eyes. The younger man motioned to the barstool beside John.

 

"Mind if, I sit down?"

 

John shrugged.

 

"It's a free country."

 

 The other man grinned slipping into the seat. He motioned the bartender over and ordered a beer.

 

"Can I get you another?"

 

The man nodded at John's drink. John shook his head, and sipped at the glass glancing around to see what was keeping his son. He suspected it might be the pretty bleached-blond waitress in the black mini-skirt. But John could see her chatting up a bored looking business man in a bad suit. The guy sitting beside him touched John's leg and he flinched.

John could see he had just said something and frowned.

 

"Sorry, I didn't catch that."

 

"My name's Mike Tanner," the other man said offering his hand. John shook it.

 

"John…Francis" he said stumbling over the last name and cursing himself inside.

 

 He was tired and distracted, and maybe Dean had been right in insisting that they take a night off.  There was no need going off half-cocked. Mike was saying something to him again and John sighed. Looked like he wasn't going to get rid of the guy by ignoring him.

 

"You must be one of the tourists?" Mike said letting his hand fall on John's thigh. John moved his leg back, but Mike's hand drifted over his leg and fell on the seat of the barstool, fingers tangling in the seat cushion.

 

John nodded.

 

"Yeah, my friend and I are staying here a few days on business."

 

 He smiled then turned away hoping that Mike would get the idea and leave him the hell alone. Apparently for once in his life John was being too subtle and Mike brushed his hand over John's arm to catch his attention.

 

"Sure I can't fix you up with another one of those."

 

His fingers lingered on the hem of John's shirt cuff. John looked down, a line forming between his brows. He shook his head again.

 

"No, really I'm waiting for Dean--my friend" he offered.

 

Suddenly a hand fell on his shoulder and John turned. Hoping it wasn't one of the locals he glanced up and caught a look at Dean's face, expression dark with some emotion John couldn't identify.  Mike looked up at Dean, and he seemed to be a whole lot better at reading Dean's expression because he picked up his beer mug and slid off the stool. Dean sat down with a thump and ordered himself a beer.

 

"You know, we could have gotten information from him, "John said gruffly.

 

Dean snorted taking a long draw on the beer. Finally, he leaned forward and grinned.

 

"Information is not what he wanted to give you, da…John." Dean winced and John shot him a look.

 

"What the hell are you talking about?"

 

"The guy was hitting on you." Dean hissed.  John blinked glass stopping half way to his mouth. 

 

"The hell you say," John snorted, this time bringing the glass all the way to his lips. Dean shrugged his shoulders.

 

"Don't be so surprised. You're a good looking guy." 

 

Dean waggled his eyebrows over the rim of the beer mug, and John's face pinked nicely. It never failed to amuse Dean that John Winchester—infamous demon hunter, blushed like a schoolgirl when he was embarrassed. He'd never forget the hunt they had gone on after Sam first left for Stanford. How red his father had gotten when he was felt up by a gray lady in the cemetery while they were burning zombies. John had salted the ghost's remains out of spite even through she seemed harmless enough—other than groping male passersby.

 

It remained absolutely amazing to Dean that John, who could tell you fifteen different ways to kill someone with common household items, couldn't talk about sex without becoming a blathering idiot. He was eternally grateful that he had taken sex education in school because John had almost had an aneurysm giving him 'the talk' and he had tried to make it as easy on John as possible. Unlike Sammy who had almost caused their dad to go into convulsions when he asked, point blank, if…and how often… John masturbated.

But to his credit John had actually given Sam a straight answer.

 

Dean had often wondered if it was his father's unease with discussing sex that had caused him to focus on John as a sexual being. He knew that his father didn't sleep with anyone, at least he hadn't when they were younger. But it was just after Sam's ill fated discussion that Dean also became acutely aware of the fact that John did masturbate. In fact, he began listening to his father in the bathroom, before bed or after a hunt and Dean was uncomfortably aware that he wanted to hear John's breathy moans and furtive movements, maybe a little too much.

 

Now sitting in a bar with John, mellowed by good food and even better whiskey, Dean smiled. He had grown up admiring his father, awed by the man who could kill monsters. Now, as an adult, Dean was aware of John not just as a father, but also as a man—a man he respected and loved. The only person he trusted whole heartedly and therefore the only person worthy of Dean's love. Of course he loved Sam, after all he had helped John raise his younger brother but that was an act of devotion and duty. And he did trust Sam, but no one could fill the places inside him that John did. And wrong or not Dean wanted to express that love in every possible way—including physical intimacy.  With a sigh Dean glanced over at John smiling behind his back. Then he got a good look at his own face in the mirrored bar back and was appalled. Dean was looking at the face of a man in love. He had always figured that he was bound to go to hell for any number of things he had done in his life, he just didn't expect it to be for wanting to fuck his own father.

 

Standing Dean dropped his hand to John's shoulder. He glanced over at lanky man sitting at a table just behind them. Raising his voice slightly as a sort of warning he said.

 

"John. I'm going up to bed."

 

He stared at the other man who tipped his glass with a grin. John nodded gulping down that last of the whiskey and cola.

 

"Wait, I'll come too. It's been a long day."

 

John slid the glass down the bar a little way and shoved the barstool back. Dean steadied his father with a hand to the back and then slid his hand down John's spine and over one hip. John looked down then glanced up at Dean from under his lashes, confusion plainly written on his face.

 

Flashing a vicious grin at the man seated at the table Dean felt his stomach flip when the guy glared at him. He fought the urge to pat John on the ass, and in the end only the fear that his dad would deck him right in the bar kept his hand at his side.

 

Once they were back in the room, however, Dean felt the beer roil in his belly. He fumbled with the key, and almost dropped it. John nudged him out of the way and shoved the door open. Quickly John stripped to his boxers and t-shirt, flipped the duvet back and slid into the crisp, clean sheets. He shivered as his heated skin cooled, and was grateful when Dean slid into the bed as well. Without a second thought, John scooted back forcing Dean to spoon up behind him. Dean stiffened.

 

"Dad, what the hell?" Dean grunted "You don't have to crowd me there's plenty of room."

 

"Crowd?" John scoffed "I'm freezing my ass off, and I expect you to warm it up for me."

 

Suddenly, it didn't seem as if Dean could get enough air into his lungs. Dad wriggled a little and he wondered if he might hyperventilate. With a sigh Dean decided that this situation probably fell under the "be careful what you wish for" category.

 

John hadn't been drinking lately and Dean decided that the whiskey must have hit him hard because he was out cold before Dean could even get settled. His father's even breathing was interrupted by little hitches and mutterings and Dean frowned. John had talked in his sleep as long as Dean could remember, and more than he had actually wanted to hear on more than one occasion. Especially a few months back when John had been out of it and had a wet dream. Actually it had ended pretty spectacularly for Dean too, listening to John mutter all those dirty things in his smoky, ground-glass voice.

 

John shifted in his sleep bringing his ass into contact with Dean's groin and Dean hissed. His arm was around John's waist, tucked under his father's armpit, and John had him clamped tight. Dean's cock twitched.

 

"Oh god, no…" he thought but he couldn't untangle himself from John without waking his father up. John murmured something, and it sounded a lot like 'Fuck me.'

 

A shrill little whimper escaped from Dean's throat and he clamped his lips shut. Well, that settled whether or not John had been sleeping around, only not the way Dean expected. He was kind of surprised that his dad did guys but not much. John was fairly opened minded, when he wanted to be. So maybe he was only surprised that John bottomed. Dean shifted trying to cushion himself with a layer of blanket. He rubbed experimentally and found he could still feel the firm, rounded globes of his father's ass beneath the covering. Shifting Dean rubbed again and John exhaled as if he had been holding his breath a long time, a low rattling hum. That was all it took and Dean was coming, breath caught in his chest. He jerked away from his father's body.

 

"You okay, Dean?"  John said in a half-slurred voice. He lifted his arm, and Dean scooted back so his father wouldn't feel the wetness spreading across the front of his boxers.

 

"Yeah, sure - my arm was going to sleep. Didn't mean to wake you."

 

"It's okay, sorry about the arm."

 

John rolled his head downward and drifted back to sleep.

 

John was up early the next day, showered and dressed before Dean even rolled over. He thumped Dean on the back in passing and said, "Rise and shine, boy. We got work to do. I'll meet you downstairs in the dining room."

 

"Yeah, fuck you very much." Dean snarled tossing a pillow at his father.

 

John chuckled as Dean rolled out of bed. He tugged his sagging drawers up and scratched his ass. John just shook his head.

 

The same elderly couple he had seen in the lobby yesterday was seated at one of the tables. They nodded and waved him over. John paused then finally settled into a chair at the same table-information was information and maybe they knew something. The lady smiled at John in a motherly sort of way.

 

'Hi, I'm Erma Thompson and this is my husband Dave."

 

The two men shook hands. John ordered coffee from the waitress then introduced himself. "John Francis, I'm just staying for a few days. Are you permanent residents in Bradbury?"

 

"Oh no," Dave said. "We just come up every year for the Fall Tour. We spend a few days at a bed and breakfast looking at the indigenous foliage then move on to a new area. There are several more couples in our group who will be here tomorrow. Erma and I like to get here a little early."

 

"Oh," John said slightly miffed, scratch information.

 

Now he was going to have to sit here making small talk. The waitress provided a small distraction taking John's breakfast order, and he barely heard Erma's next question.

 

"Where's your young man?" she asked kindly.

 

John blinked distractedly.

 

"My what?"  he finally asked.

 

 Dave put a hand on his wife's arm, shooting her a silent warning glance. John watched the interplay and smiled. She didn't look the slightest bit cowed.

 

"Your man?"

 

"Erma, maybe they don’t like to be called that. It's very rude to presume." The older man offered John a slightly embarrassed grin. "She's just nosy."

 

Finally it dawned on him that Erma meant Dean. John grunted, "He was still in bed when I left. I had to wake him up, but he should be down in a minute."

 

The door to the lobby swung open and Erma sat up straighter.

 

 "Oh look, Dave. It's Bill and Marion. Sorry to leave you, honey, but our friends have just arrived."

 

John made an 'it's fine' gesture, and watched as she dashed off. Dave took their check and offered John a parting nod. He sat there sipping at his coffee and let his mind wander back over the conversation he has just had.  A sneaking suspicion hit him, and he clapped his hand over his face.

 

"My man…oh shit," he said.

 

John hoped that Dean was in a good mood.

 

He looked up as Dean wandered into the dining room. His son settled at the table across from John grinning at his father. John frowned and Dean almost stood up again.

 

 "What's wrong?" he asked shooting John a look.

 

"What did you do yesterday? I just had a very interested conversation with Erma and Dave."

 

"Who?" Dean asked.

 

John jerked his head toward two elderly couples standing in the lobby. Dean remembered one of the women from when he and John had arrived. "What kind of conversation?"

 

"She asked where my _Man_ was. Apparently they think that we're a couple."

 

Dean tried to hedge his bets.

 

"A couple of what?"

 

John actually growled at him. Dean suddenly became very interested in the menu. John reached over the tabletop and shoved it down.

 

"Do you mind I'm trying to order here?"

 

"Just who gave them that idea, Dean? It wasn't me. You're the one who couldn't keep his hands to himself.  And just why do they think you're the man? Why not me? I'm a hell of lot more butch than you are."

 

Now Dean got a picture of what was really bothering his dad. John wasn't so much offended by people thinking they were gay, just at thinking John wasn't the dominant one in the relationship. He grinned.

 

"Oh god, da…John. It doesn't work that way. They think we're both men. I just happen to have a vibe that's all."

 

"I've got vibes, too." John huffed.

 

Dean almost snorted coffee out of his nose. John was eyeing him like he needed to be doused in holy water and rock salt.

 

 "I do, just why did she say you were my man?'"

 

"It's because of your eyelashes."  Dean said sagely.

 

The look on John's face might have cowed a lesser man, but Dean gamely continued.

 

"I'm not kidding. No man should have eyelashes as long and as thick as yours. It makes you look pretty."

 

John rolled his eyes. He got up and walked around the table casting a glance at his son before moving around behind Dean's chair. Leaning against the back of Dean's chair he said, "I may be a lot of things but pretty ain't one of them. So we've got to pretend to be lovers for as long as we're here. Think you can do it and keep a straight face, no pun intended."

 

"I think that I can manage, sweetheart."

 

John cringed.

 

"You know that as soon as we get out of town I'm going to kick your ass."

 

"Yeah, I figured. But in the meantime, honeybear, I'm going to work it for all its worth. At least, I'll have that ass-whupping coming."

 

John turned around tipping Dean's chair back a little so that he could look his son in the eye.

 

 "Dean, you call me honeybear one more time and I won't wait until we get out of town."

 

Dean sat in a chair in front of a large highly polished desk. Behind the desk sat an improbably small and terribly odd-looking middle aged woman. She was a foot shorter than Dean and John, and somewhat rotund, to put it politely. Her hair was braided with several different colored ribbons and coiled around her head almost like a halo. She was well dressed in expensive clothes but wore a lot of cheap perfume that did nothing to mask the cigarette smoke clinging to her. Even John, a former smoker, found his eyes watering from the combined fumes. Dean just sat, trying to cover his runny nose with a Kleenex, and follow along with Mrs. Miller's convoluted story.

 

John sat patiently, for him, with his fingers clenched in the hem of his jacket, and nodded. Mrs. Miller – Judy finally wound down enough for him to get a question in.

 

"Judy, I understand that you're concerned about your clients, guests…but what exactly do you want us to do? As far as I can tell from what you've just told me that none of your guests have gone missing?"

 

"No," she said, "It's true that none of my guests have turned up missing, is that a contradiction? Can one actually turn up if one is missing?" Judy smiled.

 

John shrugged and offered her a polite grimace which was as close to a smile as she was likely to get Dean thought.  "Why don't you tell me who has turned up missing?"

 

"See, I knew you were a smart man. It's mostly been hunters and a few homeless people. They all disappeared out on Haney Lake Road.  And it's never a lot of people, just a few every couple of months, but enough that word is starting to get around. Even if Sheriff Parker has tried to keep it all quiet, not a cover-up mind you. He just doesn't want people talking.  It's bad for the town-we all live on tourists."

 

"How do you know these aren't natural disappearances? I mean hunters, hikers they all wander off all the time. Why do you think we should get involved?"

 

She nodded, "Oh I know hikers and the like disappear, but at least they eventually get found or what's left gets found. These folks up and disappear and nothing is ever seen of them again- not so much as a scrap of clothes or even a body part."

 

"My old Grandma Greta, God rest her soul," she crossed herself. John repeated the gesture out of habit before he even thought of it.  Judy continued, "She used to say that there was a lake monster that ate people…every now and again someone says they see it."

 

"Lake Monster?" Dean asked. "Like Loch Ness or something smaller?"

 

"Well, that's the thing no one has ever seen all of it, just a flash but I've heard its something like a cross between a big fish and an octopus, but in the lake not the ocean. The one time anyone actually saw the thing and survived he came back stark raving mad."

 

 

"Mad?" John asked. "How, did the monster make him mad or did he go over because he saw the thing?"

 

"I'm not sure, but knowing Buddy Avers he was not on solid ground mentally to begin with. But he said the thing looked like some kind of dinosaur fish, but with tentacles on its head. Now this is the weird part…"

 

Dean snorted as if a dinosaur fish with tentacles on its face wasn't weird enough. Both Judy and his father glared at him. Dean grinned sheepishly.

 

Judy continued, "He told Harry Parker that old man Tenet, Sister Mary Paul and Gene Reynolds got between him and the lake and kept the thing off of him until he could get away."

 

"That's not so odd; a lot of people will jump in…."

 

"A lot of dead people? Sister Mary Paul died five years ago, Kyle Tenet's been gone for maybe six and Gene Reynolds went in June in a car accident. It’s a shame they were good people, you know. Salt of the earth all of them, would do anything for folks in need."

 

"Did these dead people come after Mr. Avers?" Dean asked, and John shot him a look. Judy didn’t seem to notice the edge to Dean's question.

 

"Oh no, he didn't say that. But as a matter of fact a couple of other people have mentioned seeing them too. The reason that I asked you here is that Malinda Sanchez said that she had a…uhmm… ghost in her house and a man came out and fixed it. She met him through a cousin from Minnesota who knew this Pastor. He said he could find someone to help."

 

"We'll go out to the lake tonight see what we can find." John said rising. Judy smiled bouncing up out of her chair.  "We'll let you know what we find in the morning."

 

It was damn cold at night Dean decided. The wind had picked up a little rattling the chain link fence surrounding the Harold P. Manfred Recreation Center on Haney Lake Road, just down the way from the Bradbury Memorial Park. The trees were close together and surrounded by tangled underbrush and too dense foliage for the lake to actually be visible from the road. John put his black duffle bag down on the soft dirt of the shoulder and dug around for tin shears. Dean took the huge heavy-duty tool and cut the padlock on the gate. The lock thumped against the ground and rolled a few inches.  As he tucked the tools away John passed Dean his favorite .45 and a spare clip. He made sure his Glock was tucked into the waistband of his jeans and pulled a wooden rosary out of the bag. Quickly John twined the beads around his left wrist making sure that the intricately carved crucifix lay against the back of his hand, clearly visible in the pale, silver moonlight.

 

"Got any idea what we're up against?" Dean asked once John was ready to go. John nodded pulling out his Latin Book of Prayers, just in case it turned out to be demonic in nature.

 

"Yeah, it's most likely an Aboleth, a mutant throw-back--non-sentient so we're just dealing with a big nasty animal." John said looking through the bag for a flashlight and a lighter. He tucked the lighter into his pocket. "We'll need to get it out of the water. On land they're slow and vulnerable, but in the water the goddamn things are nearly impossible to kill. We've got to burn the sucker."

 

Dean nodded checking his gun and pulling a large hunting knife out of the bag, strapping it to his waist in a leather sheath. He followed the retreating form of his father across the rec center parking lot and down a path that ran behind the building off into the forest. The trees parted and they came out on a wide strip of imported white sand that served as a "beach" for the swimming area.

 

The lake was wide and as black as obsidian in the pale moonlight. Dean could see light glinting on the gentle waves as the wind stirred the lake's surface. The white-caps broke against the sand making a gentle rocking sound that clamed him even as he scanned the horizon for some sign of the monster lurking beneath the surface.

 

John skirted around the small cove at the south end of the lake keeping several yards between himself and the glassy water. He waved Dean toward the far side of the lake and Dean took off at a rapid trot, making sure to keep his father in sight at all times. John slipped passed the playground and headed toward the fence bordering the recreational area and separating it from the cemetery on the other side.

 

Suddenly John pulled to a halt, and Dean slid to a halt as well, pausing to watch John's progress toward the cemetery. John climbed onto the lowest rung of the split rail fence, leaning forward. Far up the hill, just outside of his effective range of vision John thought that he could make out a group of people, maybe six huddled in a loose circle around the marble fountain that graced the front of a small mausoleum.  The group seemed to be standing, moving awkwardly and they were definitely looking in the direction of the lake. John cursed under his breath, the last thing he and Dean needed was an audience. Still if John was having difficulty making out the figures--half shrouded in fog and underbrush, they would have more trouble seeing him and Dean if they stayed at the south end of the lake. That limited their effective search range, but a monster tended to seek prey and he and Dean could lure the thing to them rather than search it out.

 

 

John jumped down, turning a little too quickly and staggered closer to the lake than he intended.  The water roiled splattering him with cold droplets, and the huge maw of a fish-like creature jetted out of the lake. The creature was dark sliver in color, shaped vaguely like a huge trout but with six tentacles on its face, three on each side of the gaping mouth.

 

Grunting John tried to jump back but one of the tentacles snapped out hitting him mid-chest. He staggered as the air was knocked from his body. Bending over he gasped trying to fill his aching lungs. Grabbing his hunting knife he lashed out. The knife skimmed over the silver scales on the Aboleth's face, just nicking the lower most tentacle. The creature made a high pitched sound like a seal barking, and snapped its tentacles again. The top most appendage on the right side of its mouth struck John across the face, and he felt the sting of poison.

 

A second tentacle wrapped around John's throat squeezing. He dropped the knife, grasping at the slimy thing with both hands.  His vision began graying out around the edges and John jerked his head back, feeling his spine creak as the bones ground together. His head felt like it was exploding, and he sagged to his knees.

 

Dean was beside him then, pushing his father out of the way, and raising his .45. The sound of gunshots filled the air. Dean pumped half a clip into the thing, and it jerked away sending John tumbling into the fence. He wheezed gulping oxygen into his air starved body.

 

With a final lunge Dean stabbed his knife into the largest tentacle on the thing's face, and the creature reared back, slapping at the younger man, but retreated. It sank under the water, and Dean turned to the still figure on the ground. He grabbed is father's bag, dragging a flask of holy water out. Even though the Aboleth was not demonic in nature the holy water was sterile and would wash the poison off John's face. After Dean doused his father he carefully wiped the slimy goop away. John's skin was clearing, unblemished by burns or raw sores, so the poison must have been very weak or took a long time to seep into the skin.

 

Sliding a hand under his father's arm Dean levered the older man to his feet. John swayed a little but managed to stay upright. He tugged the bag off the ground, and slung his arm over Dean's shoulder. They made their way unsteadily back to the parking lot, down the street to the inn.

 

The side door to the lobby was unlocked at night for the convenience of the guests, but in clear sight of the reception desk and the night clerk, a huge man named Rodney, who sat reading a book by the soft lamp light. He barely glanced up, and all he could see was the gay couple coming in, the older man hanging all over the younger one. Rodney decided the older guy probably had a bit too much to drink. He went back to his book.

 

They took the elevator, John still limping and gasping for breath. Dean pulled his father in closer to his body than was strictly necessary, but each time John put himself in harm's way Dean felt himself die a little. "What the hell were you doing?" he asked hoarsely.

 

John bridled at Dean's tone of voice, "What the hell I always do, kill monsters."

 

"Yeah, well that one almost killed you. You turned your back on the lake, why? One of the first things you drilled into my head was never turn your back on your target. What happened?"

 

Wincing in pain John leaned against the wall as Dean unlocked the door. "I thought I saw something in the cemetery. People, five or six of them…"

 

"Did they see us?"

 

Shaking his head John stumbled through the door. "I don't think so, I could just barely see them, and we were screened by the underbrush."

 

He dropped the bag, sinking down on the bed. Dean grasped his father's arm keeping him upright until he could strip John's outer layers off, leaving him in a reasonably dry and clean t-shirt. He bent down picking up John's feet one at a time stripping off his hiking boots and socks. John was already dozing by the time Dean worked his fingers into the button fly of John's jeans and stripped them off. John rolled onto his side, but Dean smacked him on the ass and John raised his hips so that his son could tug the blankets from underneath his body.  Finally, John rolled under the covers and fell to sleep.

 

Dean stood at the foot of the bed for a few minutes before going into the bathroom to take a shower. He chafed the hot water against his too cold skin, sighing at the feeling came back into his fingertips. Each time John put himself on the line Dean felt the same dead sensation engulfing his body. And each time they dodged the bullet, this time, he felt inordinately grateful.

 

He dressed in boxers and a clean t-shirt and climbed into the bed. John rolled over, and Dean pressed against him sighing when John's arm slipped around his waist. With his father's head resting on his shoulder Dean drifted off to sleep.

 

John woke slowly, unsure if what had disturbed him. Dean was wrapped around him, arm casually slung over John's side, palm flat against his father's chest. Dean's other arm was stretched above John's head, fingers limp on the pillow. John took a deep breath and tried to wriggle free from his son. Dean grunted wrapping his fingers in John's t-shirt and digging his knees into the back of his father's thighs. John winced, the bruises on his chest throbbed under Dean's grasp. Shifting John tired to pry his son's fingers loose. Dean twitched. With a sigh he settled against John's back, rubbing his chin on the older man's shoulder. He slid forward tilting his hips until his he could grind his cock against John's ass. John froze. Dean was hard; in fact hard enough that John could feel a wetness spreading cross the front of Dean's shorts even through his own boxers. 

 

"Uhmmm…baby," Dean said. "Oh yeah, that's so good."

 

John choked back his laughter, until Dean rubbed against him again while working one hand under John's t-shirt to pinch a nipple between his thumb and finger. John flinched, feeling his own cock jerk in response. Okay, that was enough, there was no way he was dragging Dean down into the muck with him.

 

"Dean, let go, you're hurting me."

 

Dean released his father immediately, rolling onto his back. Rubbing his eyes he glanced at the clock. "Jeeze, it's six a.m. why aren't you asleep?"

 

"You kept groping me. I had to wake up to defend my virtue."

 

"Oh yeah, because we all know that you're a virgin." Dean replied sarcastically to cover his embarrassment at getting caught. John just grinned at him.

 

"I'm going down for breakfast. Tonight we're going back out to that lake and to the cemetery, too." John groaned as he rolled out of bed. Dean sat up, pulling up the hem of his father's t-shirt. John's left ribs looked like the New York sunset, all blues and purples. He frowned. John pulled his shirt free and headed for the shower. When he stripped off the shirt in the bathroom leaning over the sink and looking in the mirror Dean could see the vivid bruises ringing John's throat, and finally the black eye adorning his face.

 

"Man that thing did a number on you. Shouldn't we wait a couple of days for you to heal up?"

 

John shrugged, "Nope, it's all superficial stuff, nothing broken."

 

 

Dean sat on the bed waiting for John to dress and leave. As his father pulled the door closed he headed for the bathroom. Turning on the shower he stepped under the hot water, sighing he closed his eyes and thought about the feel of his father's body pressed close against him.

 

John took the elevator down one floor instead of the stairs because walking caused his ribs to ache. He was seriously reconsidering going back to the lake, but he wanted to wrap this job up and move on. He was becoming a little too careless in allowing Dean to hang all over him, and he was guiltily aware of the fact that he was beginning to like it a little too much as well.

 

The dining room was packed so John had to wait on the bench by the door for a table to clear. He picked up a newspaper from the table beside the bench and began scanning the headlines, looking for anything relating to the case. He was so absorbed in the paper that he didn't hear the man walking up beside him.  When the figure didn’t move John glanced over the paper and caught sight of a pair of khaki uniform pants and black combat boots.

 

"Shit," John thought - the sheriff. He settled himself; neither he nor Dean had used the new credit cards they were carrying, so he was reasonably certain that the sheriff wasn't going to arrest him for credit card fraud. Of course, trespassing might be a possibility, if anyone had actually seen them cutting the locks on the recreation center fence last night.  He avoided looking up, shielding the side of his face with the black eye, and trying to cover the bruises on his throat.

 

"Mr. Francis,'" Sheriff Parker said tapping against the paper with his index finger. John turned his face as far away as possible and still look at the older man's face. The sheriff didn’t smile. "Mr. Francis, I need to speak with you regarding a complaint I received last night."

 

John sighed, so it was trespassing. "I'm sorry Sheriff I don't know what you're talking about," he said trying to bluff his way out of it. The sheriff wasn't buying it though, and John could see his face crease when he frowned.

 

"Mrs. Thompson complained that you and Mr. Elliot we arguing loudly last night. She said that you kept her up half the night."

 

With a grimace John decided that good old Erma was really beginning to piss him off. He offered the other man a slight smile. "I didn't realize we were being so loud. I'm sorry; I'll keep it down the next time."

 

The sheriff nodded as if placated and slapped John on the back. His ribs creaked and John grunted before he could stop it. Parker paused looking down at the younger man. "Are you okay?"

 

John made the mistake of turning his head to keep his black eye from showing, and a look of dawning suspicion filled the sheriff's face. Reaching down he put his fingers under John's chin and tilted his head toward the light. In the bright glare of the overhead fixtures the black eye was spectacular. It covered his left eye and part of his cheek. He flinched. Parker pressed his fingers into John's jaw and pulled his head up, baring the livid purple bruises surrounding John's throat. Unwilling to deal with the pain John didn’t jerk his head away. He simply sat unmoving. The sheriff dropped his hand and settled on the bench beside John.

 

"Mr. Francis - John, I used to be a little prejudice against your kind of folks. But I'm just beginning to see that we're all God's children regardless, and well I've got nothing against you, you understand?  I'm responsible for protecting folks in this town, as small and backward as it is, and that means all the folks – resident or tourist.  If there's anything happening to you that you need to tell me about…"

 

John shook his head in confusion, until he realized that the sheriff thought Dean had beaten him. He coughed to cover the snort of laughter.  "Uh, no I said I'm sorry about the noise. I'll be sure to keep it quiet; I don't want any trouble, Sheriff Parker."

 

"I sure don’t want to cause you any trouble either, but like I said I'm responsible for protecting folks these parts, and I don't want you to keep quiet. One of the little girls in town had this kind of trouble and she kept quiet and now she's in a drawer in the morgue, and well, I'd hate to have to see another one."

 

"I'm hardly a little girl, sheriff. I can take care of myself." John said.

 

"I didn't mean it that way. Maybe you can take care of yourself but maybe you won't. I haven't seen him yet, and you're pretty beat up. Does he look like this too?"

 

John flinched. Dean didn't have a mark on him. That wasn't going to look good.

 

The sheriff noticed his look as well. "For what it's worth. If you can't or won't do anything and you need help come to me, okay?"

 

John was torn between being terribly offended and absurdly touched. The man was obviously out of his depth in this situation, yet he was offering concern and protection. John smiled warmly at him, "Really I don't need help, but if I ever do need it, I'll come to you."

 

The sheriff wandered into the lobby and stood beside the desk talking to the clerk. He glanced up as Dean came into the room, frowning at the obvious lack of bruises visible anywhere on Dean's body.  John rose from the bench and intercepted Dean in the corner of the lobby beside the dining room door. He caught Dean by the shirt, pulling him away from the sheriff.  Dean slapped his father's hand away, but John stopped him.

 

"You had better be nice. Sherriff Parker is watching us."

 

"Why?" Dean asked, smiling at the older man across the room. John leaned forward lowering his voice and pulling Dean's head around.

 

"Because he's hell bent on protecting me." John grinned at the look on his son's face. "Erma Thompson, again. She heard us arguing last night when we came in, and with the black eye and all, the good sheriff naturally assumed you beat my ass. So we had better be one happy couple this morning, so look like we kissed and made up."

 

"I can do that," Dean said sliding his hand up John's arm, and cupping the back of his skull with one large, warm palm. John realized what Dean was up to just one second too late. He couldn't pull away because they were being clandestinely observed. With a grunt he whispered.

 

 "You wouldn't dare…"

 

But Dean merely grinned. Leaning forward he hissed in John's ear. "Don't think that I won't."

 

John tilted his head giving Dean plenty of clearance but said smugly, "You haven't got the balls, boy." 

 

He glared into Dean's eyes. Dean waggled his eyebrows and tilted his head, leaning forward until he could feel John's breath on his face.

 

"Still don't think so?"  Dean hesitated slightly, and he saw a flash of triumph in John's eyes.

 

Before John could say anything else Dean pressed forward. John's mouth was a thin line of disapproval under his lips. John dug his fingers into Dean's side pinching hard, just out of the sheriff's line of vision. But John was damn proud when Dean didn't flinch. He pulled John's head forward and deepened the kiss. John's death glare was somewhat blurred by their closeness, and Dean didn't back down when his father upped the ante and parted his lips. Dean grinned and pushed his tongue into John's mouth.  His father's fingers went limp against Dean's side, and his hand drifted down coming to rest on Dean's hip. Dean slid one hand around John, careful of the bruised ribs and skimmed lightly across his back.

 

Suddenly aware that they were standing in a public place John dropped his hand and stepped back.  Blushing from the roots of his hair to the collar of his shirt he brushed his hand over his lips. The sheriff was gone when they both looked back at the reception desk, and the girl holding menus at the door of the dining room was gaping like she had walked in on the set of a porn film. Dean tried to keep one step behind John hoping that his father wouldn't notice that Dean had an erection. He glanced down trying to see if anyone else would notice it either and was grateful that the tail of his shirt was untucked covering him. John was not so fortunate and Dean could clearly see that his father was half-hard.

 

Now wasn't that interesting.

Dean settled on the ground beside his father. John was compulsively checking the chamber on his Glock .37. Dean sighed he didn't understand why John had abandoned his .45 in favor of the lighter gun. John's hand was every bit as big as Dean's, in fact his fingers where slightly thicker and longer so he shouldn't have had any problem with the grip on the bigger weapon. Still, to each his own, and Dean liked the kick and the force of the bigger handgun. He grinned when John slipped the Glock into the waistband of his jeans and picked up the thermos of coffee sitting in the sand between them.

 

With a glance at the lake Dean asked, "Hey, Dad, can I ask you a question?"

 

John didn't bother to correct him. They would be finishing up this job tonight and moving on soon enough. John dipped his head. "You know what my response to that always is."

 

"Yeah, yeah…" Dean said. "I can ask anything I want but it's up to you if you answer or not."

 

John nodded over the plastic cup smiling through the rising curls of steam. Dean wriggled in the sand trying to find a comfortable spot where the dew wouldn't seep through the seat of his jeans.

 

"Why do you get so embarrassed when you talk about sex? You blush like you wouldn't believe…sometimes Sammy and I used to think you'd actually start bleeding out of your pores you'd get so red in the face."

 

Dean canted his head so that he could see John out of the corner of his eye. True to his nature the color was rising in his cheeks. Apparently just being asked to talk about talking about sex was enough to set him off. Dean chuckled and John shot him a look over the rim of the cup. After a while when Dean was certain that this was going to be one of those questions that John wasn't going to answer his father shrugged.

 

"I don't know. Maybe its because I had to talk to Grandma about everything, and hearing the facts of life in that honey and magnolia voice of hers just twisted me up inside. If Grandpa had been half-way reliable I would have heard it from him."

 

He was treading on thin ice, but he had gotten that much out of John so Dean stepped into the breach. "So uh…where did you…you know… the first time."

 

He didn't think it was possible but John's face colored even more. "That's none of your…"

 

But John stopped, shifting in the sand. Looking at the younger man sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, John smiled. Something warm and familiar twisted itself into Dean's gut, and coiled deep in his belly.

 

"You got to promise Sammy never hears a word of this.  It's not something a man wants his little boy to hear."

 

Dean could hear the unspoken 'and you haven't been a little boy in a long time' under those words. He looked down at the sand, a smile playing over his face. John's face softened as well. "I was a late bloomer; at least Grandma used to call it that, but I think maybe I was just antisocial enough so girls didn't like me. I met your mom the first day of high school and I knew she was the one, just like that no second thoughts. We dated all through high school, and I never laid a hand on her or any other girl. Not that I didn't try with her, but a couple of black eyes taught me otherwise. And I didn't even have to deal with her big brother. For such a little girl she had a hell of right-cross.  Finally, she must have decided I was a keeper because... A week before I dropped out of school and went off to boot camp, your mother, uh, broke me in - you know what I mean, in the back seat of the Impala."

 

"That's cool, dude," Dean said quietly. He took the cup from John and sipped some of the coffee, _not_ noticing the hitch in his father's breath. Sitting there in companionable silence they watched the water rippling in the clear night air. They kept still, not talking, until the sky darkened and their breath hit the air in wisps of white vapor.

 

The moon was high and the sky completely cloudless so it was easy to see all the way across the lake and into the cemetery. The shore of the lake was quiet, not as much as the sound of the sand ruffling in the breeze. After another hour of sitting John frowned. It seemed as if the Aboleth had been spooked by their encounter the previous night and was hunting on the far side of the lake that skirted the graveyard boundary.

 

"I think we're going to have to shift to the other shore," John said rising, wincing a little when his knees snapped and popped. Dean capped the thermos dropping it into the duffle at his father's feet.

 

"Gives us a chance to scout out the cemetery anyway. See if we can figure out who you saw hanging out over there. Probably just a bunch of high school kids playing ghost games. Maybe making out on the grave makers," Dean replied brushing the sand off the seat of his pants.

 

"It's awfully cold for that," John muttered. Dean shivered in silent agreement.

 

They skirted around the lake on the south side, keeping well away from the water until the beach area narrowed to the point that they were  right on the shoreline.

 

"Could be a coven." John said and Dean shrugged. They had run into kids playing witch before. It never ended well.

 

The underbrush rustled as the breeze picked up. Branches raked the tree trunks making a hissing crackling sound that masked the slapping of the water on the shore.  Dean frowned again; it would be harder to track the Aboleth if the noise kept up. It was damn cold, too. He hoped that the breeze died down. They were walking too close to the lake for comfort and he was doubly aware that John had pushed him up hill, farther from the waterline.

 

Dean paused and John pulled up short beside him. He leaned forward when Dean made a sharp gesture with one hand. Bending down Dean hissed in John's ear.

 

 "I see them, up on the hill. I think there's six of them all huddled together near the fountain.

 

John nodded. He glanced around Dean's shoulder, brushing his arm against Dean's chest to get his son to turn. Following John's momentum Dean slid his foot around and got a better look at the six figures milling around, huddled in a small cluster watching them intently.

 

Suddenly the water erupted in a geyser and cold droplets splattered both men as the Aboleth reared out of the lake and struck. The first tentacles slapped at Dean and he dodged to the left, bumping into his father. John shoved Dean roughly keeping him upright and they disentangled themselves falling into a back to back stance that worked well for up close encounters.

 

John pulled the Glock and pumped several rounds into the creature. But the bullets didn't seem to have a noticeable effect on the Aboleth. Cursing under his breath Dean pulled the hunting knife from his belt sheath and slashed the tentacle closest to him. The knife left a huge gash on the silver colored flesh and the creature shrieked drawing back.

 

John moved up the slope and down the lake from Dean. He stumbled over the rough ground and almost took Dean down with him. Rolling John got out from under Dean's feet and back on his own in a few seconds. He pulled his knife and slashed at the tentacles on the side of the Aboleth's face closest to him. With an ear splitting scream the creature jerked its head, slapping the tentacle out catching John squarely in the chest with the pointed tip.

 

John screamed in pain as the tip ripped through his shirt and gouged a furrow in his chest. Blood seeped around the pointed barb and John was forced to back off, to keep the tip from becoming embedded in his flesh.  Dean saw the Aboleth strike his father and he dropped back to cover the other man as he retreated. The flailing tentacles barely missed Dean's head, and he ducked not anxious to try and deal with a concussion.

 

John moved back, hitting the split rail fence dividing the lake and the cemetery. Without hesitation he called to Dean.

 

 "Over the fence. We need to move around so we have more room to maneuver. We'll come at it from up field, where there's more space between the lake and the fence."

 

Dean backed away not willing to turn away from the monster, and slid across the grass to hustle over the fence after his father. John was already hurrying across the flat grassy area not even trying to avoid the flat bronze plaques marking the graves. He finally skidded to a halt panting for breath.

 

Dean, chest heaving from exertion, slammed into the short wall bordering the marble walkway to the mausoleum. He gasped a curse and bent over, hands resting on his thighs as he caught his breath again.

 

He looked up as the six people they had spotted from the recreation area beach moved toward them. Eyes widening he made a quick move toward his father and collided with the older man sending him sprawling. John grunted as he hit the ground then followed Dean's gaze to the assembled group and he froze in horror.

 

The figure at the front of the group was undeniably male. Taller than both Dean and John he was dressed in a navy blue suit stained in places by the red clay that made up most of the soil in the cemetery. He must have had to struggle to get out of his grave because his fingers were also clotted with clay and grass. He would have been John's age perhaps a bit older and similar in facial features if half his face hadn't been ripped away. Dean could see the remnants of brain tissue clinging to the inside of his skull as he swung his head around.

 

Behind the male zombie stood a shorter, elderly female figure dressed in a nun's habit, wooden rosary still twined around her skeletal wrist. Her face was almost a skull neat white teeth gleaming in the moonlight, her eyes vacant black sockets under a few moldering scraps of leathery skin.

 

Behind those two was the weathered, ragged corpse of an elderly man, his jeans and flannel shirt hanging in shreds off the bony mummy-like body held together by tough strings of sinew and tendon.  The three remaining zombies were younger people, more recently deceased, if appearance was anything to go by. The girl might have been pretty if her neck wasn't bent at an improbable angle, eyes sunken into dull blank sockets covered by paper-thin lids coated with dust. Who ever had embalmed her had done a good job because she was untouched by decomposition. She moved forward toward Dean hands held out in a solicitous gesture.  Dean cringed,

 

 "Dad…"

 

"I know," John replied trying to hustle his gun out of the waistband of his jeans. The tall male zombie reached out knocking the Glock aside and his fingers closed on John's wrist.

John tried to jerk away from the withered hand grasping him. He couldn't suppress the shudder that ran the length of his body when those cold, skeletal fingers wrapped around his arm. The zombie tugged almost effortlessly, bringing John to his feet then released him. Turning the zombie motioned to John with one hand, waving him forward, waiting to be followed. Quickly John moved after the shambling figure to the mausoleum and the marble walkway surrounding the small building.

 

John looked back at Dean who was now surrounded on both sides by the female zombies. The nun gently nudged Dean after John moving him toward the building. When the entire group had reached the marble walkway Dean expected the zombies to turn on him and his father, but they merely stood waiting mutely until John sat down on the wall.

 

The tall man looked at John with a vacant but still somehow expectant expression on his face. John cocked his head then remembered something Judy Miller had told them. _Gene Reynolds, Sister Mary Paul, Kyle Tenet, good people all of them, salt of the earth. Do anything for folks in need._

"Gene Reynolds?" John asked and the zombie stilled, head turned to one side. Rising John took in the ragged group and made a decision. Taking a deep breath he stepped forward holding out his hand. "John Winchester."

 

Dean looked at John as if he had lost his mind, but the zombie stumbled, moving as quickly as his rigor stiffened limbs would allow. Holding his hand aloft the zombie allowed John to take it. John tried not to flinch at the feel of cold, dead flesh under his palm.

 

"I think these people are here to help us, Son."

 

With a strained laugh Dean looked at the assembled mass of ragged decomposing flesh and winced.  But he gamely replied.

 

 "A pleasure to meet you, folks."

 

John waited while the other zombies clustered around, each one wanting to shake his hand, touch his arm almost desperate for some tiny bit of human contact. Dean and John stood amid them offering what they could. Finally, John turned to the nun. "You folks have been scaring people, keeping them out of recreation center at night. You've been trying to keep them away from the Aboleth haven't you?"

 

The younger woman had more freedom of movement than the others and she offered Dean a grimace that might have been some attempt at a smile. "You didn't know how to kill it though did you?" he asked.

 

Her neck was broken so her head movements were jerky and uncoordinated at best, but she managed to shake her head all the same. Dean nodded. "My Dad and I can kill it. That's what we're here for; we kill these kinds of things."

 

The elderly man jerked around, one bony arm rose, skimming over his own chest. John flushed dropping his gaze to the ground. He wasn't going to lie to them. "Yeah, we kill your kind too."

 

Sister Mary Paul turned, her ravaged face directed at John. Blank sockets locked with his eyes, and he felt like a schoolboy about to be reprimanded for cursing in class. He sighed, but the zombie gently took his arm, pulling him along. John hustled after her. When he got to the end of the walkway she stopped him, making sure that he didn't step on the rose bushes.  John smiled just like a woman, even a dead one, to watch out for those damned things.

 

It took almost an hour for John to be sure that the zombies actually understood what he intended to do. Like all of their kind John and Dean had encountered they couldn't speak, but these few seemed to have maintained enough of their faculties to grasp a simple plan. Working with the zombies was also time-consuming as well, since they lacked manual dexterity and good hand-eye coordination. Which was only to be expected, Dean reckoned, since they were dead? But they were eager to help, and seemed to grasp what John wanted them to do.

 

Finally, John and the zombies stood sheltered by the underbrush while Dean huddled on the lakeshore not too far away, tossing stones into the water. He scanned the horizon watching for ripples in the lake.  He froze as a wave crested, rolling onto the sand. Then the Aboleth rose above the surface, water streaming off its face.

 

John ran forward moving his "troops" along as fast as they could go. Dean jumped back narrowly avoiding a tentacle to the head. John reached him first, but the zombies were close behind. They moved around the humans, each one of the zombies reaching out toward the creature. They grasped the tentacles each zombie holding one of the Aboleth's facial appendages in their strong hands. With almost no effort they dragged the creature out of the water and onto the sand. The Aboleth shrieked snapping its tail and wriggling, but the zombies held it fast.

 

John ripped the duffle open and pulled out two phosphorus flares. He handed one to Dean. "Pull the tab and wait for it to ignite, but don't look directly at it. It'll burn your eyes out. "

 

Dean nodded. John went to the tail end of the creature, and Dean stepped closer to its massive body. He pulled the tab on his flare looking at the Aboleth's body watching the fire flicker against the silver colored skin. John threw his flare at the same time as Dean and the Aboleth erupted into flames. Dean jumped back, motioning to the zombies to move away. They followed him and John to the fence watching as the creature shrieked and writhed on the sand, finally subsiding into the stillness of death. The body burned fast and bright, almost with as much heat as the flares, but eventually it was consumed and the fire died out.

 

When the Aboleth was nothing more than a pile of blackened bones and ash scattered on the sand John began breaking the remains up. Finally, the body was salted and scattered almost indistinguishable from the surrounding soil. John began packing the duffle bag, but Gene Reynolds stopped him. The zombie shuffled around bending over and grasping the last remaining flare in the bag. He motioned to the other zombies and they gathered around him huddled on the sand in a small group. Reynolds handed the flare to John and shuffled back to the group. John glanced over at Dean.

 

"They helped us and probably saved our lives…"

 

"I know, but they can't go on like this. Dean, they know who we are and what we do. They've done what they wanted to do. God knows who re-animated them but they know they don't belong here."

 

Sister Mary Paul bent her head, hands working the rosary beads. She cocked her head to one side, and then put her arms around the shoulders of the two younger people as much as she was able. They all looked at John, he swallowed. "Look folks, don't think that we don't appreciate your help, but…"

 

Reynolds made a motion with his hand, a gesture simulating John pulling the ignition tab on the flare. John nodded reaching into the duffle he found a bottle of oil, and a flask of holy water. He made quick vertical line over the zombies with holy water, then one quick horizontal pass. Clearing his throat he said,

 

 "God bless you and keep you, and make his face shine down upon you and give you peace…"

 

John passed the oil to Sister Mary Paul. She anointed her body and dripped it on the two younger people. The three other zombies dibbled the oil on themselves. They sat motionless waiting for the inevitable.

 

 It hurt more than he thought it would, and he closed his eyes. John pulled the tab on the flare.

 

They stood watching the small group shiver in the flames. They didn't try to run, didn't try to move at all even when the fire climbed high. Dean stood there and it seemed as if they were almost relieved as their bodies began to crumble. He hoped so at least. John stood shoulder to shoulder with him. "You know, Dean, I've heard so much about the evil that people do, how it lives after them. Now at least we know some of the good remains, too."

 

Dean nodded the fire was bright, a hot red blaze, and most of the remains were blackened and turning to ash. They stood there for almost two hours watching as the ashes crumbled and fell. John's arm brushed Dean's and their hands met. Dean stretched his fingers out and was surprised when John laced his fingers through his, and clasped his hand.

 

Dean turned to his father, raising his other hand and brushing his fingers through the rough stubble scratching the sun-toughened skin beneath. John moved closer, and Dean met him part way. Their lips met, Dean closed his eyes, sighing through his nose, and slipped his hand around his father's neck. John's lips parted, and Dean took the invitation to dive in. Raking his tongue over John's teeth, he rubbed the soft spot on the roof of John's mouth that drove Dean wild when anyone did it to him. John shivered under his hands.

 

Pushing back John exhaled deeply. "This is wrong seven ways to Sunday, and you know it. I'm your father. We can't do this."

 

"No, John…we’ve just seen that there are no absolutes in this world. Life is fleeting and I don't want to have to stand beside your grave someday and feel that I missed the best part of my life because I was afraid. Do you really think that I care what other people think of this? That I feel that loving you like this is wrong? Well, I don’t give a damn. I want this John; I've wanted it for a long time. "

 

"Still, I can't do this if you think I expect this of you or that it's something you feel you have to do out of loyalty or obedience. You need to drive this time, because I don't want to feel like I intimidated you into something you didn't want."

 

Dean laughed, "It's been a hell of a long time since you intimidated me. Like maybe never. I came to you. I want you and if it makes you feel any better, you can blame it all on me."

 

"There's no blame here, Dean. Not from me. But if we do this it'll change us, I can’t go back."

 

"I don't want to go back. I've already made up my mind on that."

 

Dean smiled brushing a thumb over John's cheek. John's eyes closed, and he took a deep breath. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision.

 

They took a few minutes to finish cleaning up. John scooped up some of the ashes from where the nun had stood, and carried them over to the rose bushes. Scattering the ashes he smiled. He thought that she would have liked that.

 

They packed their bag and walked slowly up the road to the inn. The side door was opened and the night clerk, Rodney, waved them through. John leaned back against the wall of the elevator, sighing. Dean pulled the bloody t-shirt away from John's chest. The wound was crusted over, and he could see that it was not deep, just messy. After they showered he would dress it for his dad. He finally felt the exhaustion seeping into his bones. "Man that bed is starting to look really good to me about now."

 

"Yeah, do you suppose you have enough energy to make proper use of it after we clean up?" John grinned. Dean looked at him, and purposely waited until they were standing right outside Erma and Dave Thompson's door before replying, extremely loudly, and with great enthusiasm.

 

"Are you kidding, John? I'm going to fuck you through the mattress."

 

The End

 


End file.
